


Warm

by prizewinningfruitcake



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22775365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prizewinningfruitcake/pseuds/prizewinningfruitcake
Summary: A prompt for Femslash February - Teasing kisses on every bit of visible skin
Relationships: Isabela/Merrill (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Warm

Merrill is warming up. In the traditional sense, with her legs tucked under her in her chair by the fire, all wrapped up in a cloak. And in the other sense - the forgiveness sense - well, she’s here, isn’t she? 

She’s here, and is sitting close enough that she must have seen Isabela double-drawing just now, but didn’t say anything. It’s become nearly impossible to play cards with this group. They all know her too well to let her get away with anything. Of course, Fenris cheats just as much, but she’s the one with the reputation.

“Hm,” Merrill holds her hand so close to her face she can’t possibly see it, “I’ll raise three.”

“ _Three_?” Hawke is indignant. He leans across the table, studying her. “What have you got?”

“Three angels and four knights,” Merrill says, studiously wide-eyed.

“Fine,” Hawke sits back, “I didn’t want to know anyway.”

“Daisy’s finally embraced the absurdity of life,” Varric says. Merrill shrugs and draws, examines her hand, and carefully lays a card on the discard pile. 

She does seem different, in a way. Everyone does, except maybe Varric, who would never let it show. They seem… older, she guesses. Older and exhausted, the way people get when something terrible happens to them. Is Isabela like that too? Or has enough happened to her that it doesn’t work on her anymore? 

She lets the Knight of Sacrifice drop from her hand into her lap, between her thighs, and out of sight. Fenris clears his throat and glares, but says nothing. He never calls her out directly. That’s his game; he’ll want something later. He’s got the force of guilt behind him now too. _Remember when you left Hawke bleeding out on the floor of the Keep as thanks for saving your life? I need a favor._

As for Merrill’s game, she can’t say. She’s hard to read.

“Well, I’m out.” Hawke tosses his hand onto the table. 

They’re all out, except Isabela. She raises three more silvers, because damn Merrill’s sucker unpredictability. And damn her four serpents. 

It’s late. This was their last hand. Varric bids them goodnight in such an unobtrusive way that they hardly realize he’s gone. Hawke hugs her before they leave, all affection, such a good-natured sap. There were no hard feelings from him for even a moment, once she returned. And only a few moments from Fenris. On the surface, it’s all turned out alright. 

It’ll be alright until whatever’s lurking beneath decides to come up.

Merrill scrapes up her winnings. “What do you want to drink?” she asks without looking up.

“Speaking to me again, are you?”

Isabela expects denial, that innocent Wicked Grace look, but her expression is bare and honest. “You’re here for me to speak to.”

That stings. She is capable of that when she wants to. Or perhaps she truly didn’t mean anything by it. Either way, Isabela is staying to find out.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

She brings back a cider. “Nora said it’s Orlesian. I couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a good thing or not.”

“Orlesians like to get drunk like everyone else,” Isabela says, “only they’re more pretentious about it.”

She laughs at that, then says, “I’ve always wanted to see Orlais. The Dales.”

“Mm, nice and depressing.” Isabela sips her cider. It’s good. Tart. Normally cider reminds her of old lady perfume, but this isn’t too cloying.

“It’s history,” Merrill protests. “Depressing or not, forgetting it is worse than feeling bad about it.”

“There’s enough feeling bad in the present, if you ask me,” she mutters, then, feeling as though this conversation is going somewhere too relevant for her taste, says, “Now, when you need to recover from your reflection on the evils of man, there’s always Val Royeaux. Dancing, drinking, bawdy shows. You can’t go wrong there.”

“Bawdy shows?” 

Her eyes light with interest and Isabela smiles. “Oh yes, they’re not nearly as stodgy as here. Say what you want about Orlesians, they’re fantastically lustful, and they love a show.”

Merrill frowns, and rests a cheek on her palm, thinking. Perhaps imagining.

“The Rose?” she continues. “Imagine if it had no doors.”

“Oh.” It’s hard to see in the firelight, but this has surely made Merrill blush. She leans forward on her elbow, idly runs a finger along the edge of her glass. 

Isabela has tales aplenty about brothels and cabarets, peep shows, and so on, and perhaps this isn’t the time to talk about that sort of thing - nor the company - but she never can stop herself. Merrill listens and asks questions, sometimes giggling or wrinkling her nose in disapproval. She’s leaning forward, looking. _Looking._

This is trouble. Like always. Trouble, late night in the Hanged Man, a few drinks deep. Trouble, pink cheeks and dark eyes. It’s cold outside, Isabela finds herself remarking as she stands to go back to the Alienage. Merrill backs her into the doorframe. 

“Kitten…” 

“Are you going to say we shouldn’t?” She isn’t touching her, just standing close enough that Isabela can feel breath on her chest.

“Well-”

“Do you want me to go?”

She doesn’t have to say no. Her lips find the soft flesh of her throat in between the rough wool of her cloak, savors the gasp she draws, and catches her around the waist as her knees buckle. 

Mouth on hers, hand in her hair. Even after everything, even after all this mess, Merrill still wants this - wants her. They’re in her room. Isabela is dimly aware of the door closing behind her. Her bed - there - a creak and a soft grunt as Merrill lands, spread awkwardly on top of her cloak, which has slipped from her shoulders. Beautiful. 

“Merrill…”

_Why can’t she just enjoy this?_

“What?”

She looks annoyed at the interruption. Isabela is annoyed at herself. But-

Merrill is slipping off her leggings from under her dress, tossing them aside. She looks up.

“Come here.”

It’s an order.

Isabela finds her mouth again, teeth on her bottom lip, devouring her. Merrill arches into her, into her hands on her waist, on her hips. She kisses her neck, her collarbone, her chest where her dress doesn’t cover. 

She kisses the tender spots under her arms, where it’s ticklish, where it makes her squirm. She draws a map of the spots that make her squirm with her lips, with her tongue.

Sitting back at the edge of the mattress, her hands find the bottom hem of her dress, but don’t move it. The warmth of bare thighs is too good to rush past. She kisses the round of her thighs, the insides of her knees, and Merrill sighs, hands on her shoulders and in her hair.

Her calves too, her ankles, delicate and shapely, she can’t leave those unkissed. The arch of her foot is cold, but it makes her breath hitch to be touched. 

Merrill’s lying back now, heavy and breathless. Her chest heaves, straining the buttons that curve down the front of her dress. Begging to be opened. 

Isabela’s own clothes are beginning to overstay their welcome. But this first. Merrill watches her undo the buttons propped up on her elbows. She slips out of the sleeves and is bare, flushed, as Isabela hurriedly shucks off her jacket, unfastens her trousers. 

She’s not all the way undressed, but her mouth is on hers again, skin on skin, rutting. 

Merrill gasps and moans at her hands, at her fingers that caress and tease. She whines at her lips on the hollow of her chest, the peaks of her nipples. And then she bucks against her, traps her hand between her thighs. Demanding. 

Isabela gives in, fingers inside her, inside herself, pushing, stroking, and there’s nothing else besides this - besides her skin and the sound of her voice - until she watches her come over the edge. Merrill’s hands hold her at her jaw and the back of her neck as she comes trembling on top of her. They stroke her bare back as she drifts back to the present. 

Warm. Comforting. More than she expected, just like it’s been since the moment she stepped back into this town. 

But they’ve stripped away a few layers, and still nothing nasty underneath. She’s too tired to think about it. She hardly has the wherewithal to kick off her boots and the rest of her trousers to crawl all the way into bed. 

She’ll just have to stay a while and find out.


End file.
